


While you weren't there

by mysleepyhead



Category: Sherlock (TV), StartUp (TV)
Genre: A Sherlock/StartUp crossover, Anal Sex, Angst, Drug Use, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Honestly It is just a Startup Character ending up in Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Oral Sex, Smut, dub con (Not between Sherlock and John)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-18 16:40:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8168765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysleepyhead/pseuds/mysleepyhead
Summary: Sherlock came back from dead. For John. Only to be disappointed. John has someone else now. So Sherlock, now heartbroken, finds a replacement. But replacements are never as good as real. Are they?





	1. Brownian motion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angstlover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angstlover/gifts), [jhwatson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jhwatson/gifts).



> This fic contains an unusual pairing. Sherlock Holmes and Phil Rask from Startup. Which is kinda hot in my opinion.This fic is actually the fruit of the non stop prompt of my dear friend Addi.. Dedicating to my bees at @addisbeesquad. Big thanks to my beta Louise.To help with my crappy grammar. Here is the first chapter.I hope you enjoy.

_You lived in me. I lived in you._

_We never thought, we never knew._

_And life wasn’t all that fair_

_And I died, while you weren’t there._

_He was drowning; he could taste the water, it was salty. Sea then. He must be drowning in the sea. His chest felt heavy, his lungs were getting full of water. It hurts. It hurts so much. Why is there no light? Didn’t there used to be a light? A constant warm light. Where is it now? Why is it so cold? Didn’t anybody see that he fell in the water? Why didn’t anyone help? Where is John? Where is his John? Where is he? Where are they?_

 

Sherlock opened his eyes to see the dimly lit room, he swept his tongue over his lip and tasted blood. Nothing was making much sense. Where is he? He blinked his eyes for a few seconds, then he adjusted his ears to listen to the sounds surrounding him and he finally heard something: breathing. Not his own.

  


Someone was in the room.

  


He turned his head to look to his right, where he thought the breathing was coming from.

  


And there was a man.

  


A man, standing, naked. His back turned to Sherlock. His posture straight, the ripples of his muscles almost visible in the dim light. Sherlock smelt tobacco, the man was smoking a cigarette.

  


Now, Sherlock paid attention to his own state. He was stark naked. On a bed. Not his own. The room looked nice but he couldn’t pay attention to the room much right now. His foggy memory was clearing up a bit. He knew exactly where he was.

  


He looked horrible. Like a rundown victim. Purple patches smeared on his chest, his thighs, deepened red scars that looked like bite marks. It is impossible to see the extent of it all clearly in this light. A small scar in the middle of his chest was swollen and bleeding a little.

  


Sherlock moved his right hand to touch the spot. Two things happened at once. His hand didn’t move much, it was handcuffed to the headboard. And in the effort of moving his hand, it resulted in pain. 

  


“Ouf!” He winced at the painful sensation.

  


The man turned back.

  


“Look who is awake!” The man was grinning. The cigarette still in hand. Almost fully burnt out.

  


Sherlock took a big gulp.

  


The man thrashed the filter in the ashtray and crawled up in bed. Putting his two legs around Sherlock, he bent a little so his face was almost parallel to Sherlock’s and only a mere inch away.

  


“Mmm, look at you big guy. Gosh you look so fuckable while you sleep. I almost loosened my last bit of humanity and was tempted to fuck you in your sleep.”

  


Before Sherlock could say anything, the man moved his hand and grabbed Sherlock’s flaccid cock. Stroking it, he ducked his head to reach Sherlock’s long pale neck and slowly took a lick towards his jaw, as he began groaning in his throat.

  


Sherlock’s whole body jolted from the simultaneous sensations. He let out an involuntary moan.

  


“You like it when I fuck you like a whore, don't you Sherlock? When I cuff you to my bed and fuck you mercilessly? You get off on it, don’t you, Mr. Consulting Detective?” The man was groaning in his ear continuously while stroking his cock. Sherlock could feel himself getting hard and he could feel the man’s hardening cock on his thigh. The man was panting now. 

  


“Then I will fuck you again like a whore on your back!”

  


And the man flipped Sherlock, like a feather, like he wasn’t a full grown man lying, limp like a toy on his bed.

  


Sherlock cried out in pain, his hand was bruised where it was cuffed and the twisting action made the cuff deepen the bruise. There was a painful sensation vibrating through his whole body; his ribs hurt like somebody had pounded on them.

  


The man didn’t care, before the sensation of overwhelming pain even faded out, Sherlock sensed a new pain. The man thrust his cock in Sherlock’s hole without warning, let alone taking the time to prep him first.

  


“God, please... This hurts! Please.” Sherlock was whimpering, his eyes watered. His head was almost blacking out from the nerve wrenching pain. He was so raw, he couldn’t breathe.

  


The man, spread himself over Sherlock, gripping Sherlock’s hair and pulling, bringing his own mouth to Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock could smell cigarettes and whiskey as he felt the hot breath on his cheek.

  


“There is no God here Sherlock, there is only me.”

  


“Phil, please, it hurts too much, please. I can’t”

  


“Sorry Sherlock, I don’t listen to anyone, I just take what is mine. You should have deduced that long ago.” Phil finished the sentence with a growl as he bit down on Sherlock’s shoulder, teeth buried in an already formed bite mark.

  


Sherlock screamed in pain, again.

  


Phil didn’t listen, all he did was deepen and pace his thrusts harder. 

  


After a few minutes, Sherlock lost his ability to scream. He clenched his teeth to stop the screams and whimpers. He couldn't let Phil think that he was not strong enough.

  


He knew what he was getting into. He can’t complain now.

  


All he did was sob, silently. The pillow beneath his head was wet and he blacked out everything surrounding him. He went to his mind palace, not caring about the man groaning over him, fucking him mercilessly; his aching body, or his involuntarily hard erection tangled in the sheets.

  


He was remembering. A sunny day in 221B. John and him at the table, having breakfast. He remembered how John’s hair glistened with the sunlight every time he was laughing while Sherlock deduced the anonymous columns in the newspaper. He did that just to make John laugh. John didn’t know that.

  


He hasn’t seen John laugh in months.

  


Phil laughs a lot. He laughs about everything; about how broken Sherlock is and about how dependent Sherlock is on him.

  


He is right though.  Phil was Sherlock’s anchor now. A rusty, incompatible anchor, in which all it did was sink Sherlock deeper in the ocean with every passing moment. But still he was there.

 

Not like the shiny, perfect anchor which abandoned Sherlock long ago to port somewhere new. 

  


At least John was happy, that was the only thing worth mentioning. 

  


And Sherlock was stuck, in something he could not find any way to come out of.

  


  


 

 

Sherlock came back to his senses as he felt Phil fall over his back, panting heavily, totally spent.

  


Phil moved after some seconds, pulling out his flaccid cock, as Sherlock felt hot cum spill from  his anus. Phil didn’t pay any attention to that. He sat up on the bed and slid down, while Sherlock watched him go to the bathroom from his peripherals, hearing the shower opening.

  


He didn’t move. Just kept laying on his stomach as Phil left him. Cum smeared over his back, leaking from his arsehole. The tear streaks drying on his cheek. Ignoring his aching body by clenching his teeth with his whole strength, his hand still cuffed to the headboard.

  


He was so alone.

 

 

  


**_Three months ago_ **

 

He came back from the dead, after two long years.

  


He dressed in his best suit, as he cleaned himself up and looking forward to meeting with John.

  


_My John, for whom I died, for whom I came back,_ he had  _t_ hought to himself.

  


But what he didn't imagine was the woman sitting in front of John. John’s girlfriend.

  


Things went like a whirlwind. Sherlock put aside his emotional wrecked state to see a new woman with John and when appeared before them, John had reacted violently.

  


John blamed him, cursed him, for not being there, for leaving him alone, for leaving him to his grief.

  


“You let me grieve. Huh? How could you do that to me?” John had asked between gritted teeth. 

"You faked your death and you let me believe you were dead. After everything, how could you do that to me?”

  


_For you._  Sherlock never said.  _To protect you_. He couldn’t say.

  


Sherlock blamed Mycroft, “You knew John had someone in his life now. Why didn’t you tell me before I went there and made a fool out of myself?” Sherlock was furious.

  


“You needed to see that with your own eyes” Mycroft had said nonchalantly.

  


“You could have stopped him.” Sherlock said in between his clenched teeth.

  


“Stopped him from what? Getting on with his life? Settling with someone? Why would I do that?” 

  


“You knew Mycroft, you knew from the beginning.” Sherlock’s voice was breaking, his body betraying him.

  


“And you never said. I don’t work on assumptions brother mine.” Mycroft replied bluntly.

  


And things went like Sherlock had never imagined.

 

 

  


  


John got married and Sherlock died inside. 

  


He let open his heart in his best man speech, just saying blatantly how much he loved John and his presence in his life.

  


“John Watson, you keep me right.”

  


_He used to keep me right, now he isn’t even with me._

__  
  


Everyone thought the speech was the declaration of their unbreakable bond, their precious friendship, their shared moments, their journey of companionship.

  


Nobody noticed that Sherlock actually put his bleeding heart in front of everyone and with every line in his speech, the wound in his heart deepened, blood gushing everywhere. Blood rose up to everybody’s feet, Sherlock had too much inside him, too many words struggling to come out.

  


And nobody noticed.

  


He played the violin like a robot in the evening, watching the happy couple dance around. A hollow abyss in his chest; the place where his heart used to be, now a black hole.

  


He kept up his demeanour and congratulated the happy couple, informing them about the newest addition in their family. He saw something in John’s eyes, a shadow of something _. Regret? No he must be imagining things._

__  
  


“Go dance, you two.” He had said to the happy couple, grinning. Crushing inside.

  


“But what about you?” Mary, John’s lovely wife, had asked.

  


“Don’t worry about me. It’s your day.” He had said.

  


And then he left the wedding early.

 

 

  


  


 

He was clean for so long, it almost hurt his soul to turn back to drugs again. But his heart was aching too much and he needed to dull the pain.

  


He left the cab at Golden Square and walked towards Brewers Street; behind was an alleyway, a pretty shady place where every kind of drug was available. He had been there to investigate a number of cases; a part of his homeless network was rather active in this area.

  


There was a silhouette of a man huddled at the corner, looking motionless, but as he spotted Sherlock, he moved. 

  


“Got something for me Wiggins?” Sherlock muttered.

  


“Yes, you bet.” The silhouette moved, walking close to Sherlock, sticking out his hand containing the packets. Sherlock shoved some bills in Wiggin’s hand and took the packets, shoving them inside his breast pocket.

  


That was when Sherlock saw the man for the first time.

  


Medium stature, strong, the streetlights reflecting on his silvery blond hair. Leather jacket, strong jaw, he looked rather handsome despite the dim lighting.

  


The man looked unnervingly similar to John’s structure, but opposite. Like if John was made of iron, this man was titanium. His angles more pronounced than John.

  


The man was a few feet away from them, walking casually to a junkie standing in the far end of the alleyway. A customer, Sherlock had thought to himself. He was relieved to see that his position and the dark fabric of his belstaff made him invisible to anybody but Wiggins.

  


The man talked for a few minutes with the junkie and then walked away. Sherlock was unable to tell if any exchanging of goods had happened, but he wasn’t in the right mind frame to make sure.

  


He left the alleyway and walked back to Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson was still at John’s wedding.  _John’s wedding._  Sherlock gritted his teeth. He was thinking about changing into something comfortable before, but no, got to dull the pain, as soon as possible. He threw his belstaff and his day coat aside.

  


Sherlock’s hand was shaking. He never thought about going back to drugs again. There was no need of that in the past few years, but things don’t always go as people wish.  _Sentiment_. Ironically, the deducing genius Sherlock Holmes was not an exception.

  


He got the box out of its hiding place, a layer of dust upon it. He then opened the box to reveal the syringe; he prepared the solution with a steady hand. He wasn’t shaking anymore. Sherlock rolled up his sleeve, he hadn't even bothered to go to his room, the living room was good enough. Then he tied the rubber band around his arm, shoved the needle in the muscle, pushed the solution inside and retracted the needle. He waited for a few seconds.

  


And then he was thrashing on the carpet. Ignoring the whole world around him, finally lost into oblivion.

 

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

“Hey Sherlock,” Lestrade grinned, but Sherlock didn’t return the smile. 

  


He was at Bart’s and Lestrade had called about some case. Sherlock was so glad that he had acquired a good acting face through the years, because he was completely high and nobody even noticed; the irony of the London police force. Sherlock chuckled to himself.

  


“You okay, Sherlock?” Sherlock was alert within a second, did Lestrade know? Did he suspect anything?

  


“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” Sherlock replied, furrowing his brows.

  


“I didn’t see you after the wedding, it has been three weeks.” There was concern laced in Lestrade’s voice.

  


Sherlock chose to ignore it.

  


“Did you call John?” Lestrade asked again after a pause.

  


“No I didn’t. Why Should I? He is on his sex-holiday with Mary. Nobody likes disturbances during that period according to popular culture.”

  


Lestrade was staring at him with some unreadable expression.  _Pity? Sympathy?_

__  
  


“Sherlock…” Lestrade opened his mouth but stopped abruptly, like he was restraining himself from saying something improper... 

  


“Let’s talk about the case, Lestrade. “ Sherlock replied coldly.

  


Lestrade snapped his mouth shut, then cleared his throat.

  


“You remember the murder at Redhill Street, the other night? Molly did the autopsy and found something useful, she wanted you to take a look.”

  


Sherlock opened the swing door at the morgue and froze in his place.

  


At the morgue, talking with Molly, was that man.

  


His silvery blond hair, leather jacket, strong jaw and looking even more dashing in the bright light. The man was ruggedly handsome and clean shaven.

  


His build was not only similar to John's, but there was an uncanny resemblance between the two men. Although, at the same time, the man standing in front of him was the one eighty degree opposite of John, that it was almost unsettling.

  


The man looked up and smiled.

  


“Mr Holmes! At last I get to meet the famous detective.” The man was now walking towards him.

  


It was the same man Sherlock had seen in the dim light of Brewers Street, he had missed the obvious then. 

  


_This man is not a customer. Definitely someone associated with law enforcement. American accent. Most probably FBI then. Used to do drugs. Clear now. Alcoholic. Divorced. One child. Bisexual. Playboy. Several mood swings. Anger issues._

__  
  


“What is an FBI agent doing in London?” Sherlock asked vaguely.

  


“Nice to meet you Mr. Holmes.” The man raised his hand, asking for a handshake. ”I am agent Phil Rask, FBI, as you have presumed.”

  


Sherlock took his hand in a handshake. “Call me Sherlock, everybody does.”

  


“Okay, Sherlock then.” Phil said, with a grin. Sherlock noticed the grin didn’t touch his eyes.

  


“What brings you here to London, Phil?” Sherlock asked, glancing over to see Molly and Lestrade standing with an amused expression on their faces; Lestrade was continuously signalling with his eyes at Phil’s direction.

  


_Yes I can see his resemblance to John. I am not stupid. No need to point that out._

__  
  


“Where is Dr Watson? Your blogger? Everyone says I have a striking resemblance to him.” Phil said as he smirked; Sherlock noticed how Phil had swept his tongue suggestively over his lower lip.

  


“Watson is quite busy at the moment with a change in his personal life and about the resemblance, yes, maybe; but that’s not the point Agent Rask. I am going to go back to my question again. No don’t answer, something related to a drug chain? Am I right?” Sherlock asked, putting on his Latex gloves.

  


“So you  _are_  as good as they say you are. Yes, I am a specialist in financial crime, currently investigating a case of drug trafficking. One of my contacts actually died under mysterious circumstances, the body found on Redhill street, that’s him... Did the DI tell you?” He looked behind him, Lestrade wasn’t there. Sherlock hadn't noticed when the Dective Inspector had walked out.

  


“No... I simply observed.”

  


_And I actually saw you there._

__  
  


“Ah good, very good.” Phil looked at Sherlock with an unreadable expression. 

  


Sherlock didn’t pay much attention, he silently continued with taking off his coat and adjusting the latex gloves. He had a body to examine. Although the man standing opposite to him was fascinating, and was rather eating Sherlock with his eyes, Sherlock decided to not show any interest in him anyway.

  


Phil’s phone started to ring.

  


“Excuse me, gotta take this call.” Sherlock nodded in approval and Phil was out of morgue.

  


“You saw that? Doesn’t he look a whole lot like John?” Molly came bouncing.

  


“Yeah he does and also he doesn’t. Change the subject, Molly.” Sherlock huffed.

  


“And he has nice manners, talks very nicely. Maybe a bit rough, but nice.” Molly was grinning.

  


“Yeah, he's a real charmer. Now tell me about your observations.” Sherlock pursed his lips impatiently.

  


Molly looked a little bit disappointed, but didn’t say anything.

  


When he at last got out of Bart’s, it was evening. The busy London traffic running tirelessly; people rushing to their homes. He crossed the little sushi place John and he sometimes liked to visit. It was one of John’s favourite places.

  


_Not again. No. No thoughts about John. He doesn’t exist. He doesn’t call. He isn’t there. Maybe he never was._

__  
  


He returned back to the flat and changed his clothes. His hands were shaking. Then, in place of the well cut suit and usual belstaff, he threw on an old t shirt, sweats and a hoodie.

  


_Time to be the heartbroken junkie then._

__  
  


Mrs Hudson wasn’t home, thankfully on a one month holiday to her sisters.

  


Sherlock abandoned the constraints of 221B, locked the door and vanished into the dark.

  


He walked for a few minutes and then stopped in front of a house. The house looked ruined, like it would collapse at any moment. He had been coming here for two weeks now. To get high, to forget. 

  


Nobody knew him here, nobody asked questions, he wasn’t even Sherlock here.

  


“Shezza?” A thin voice asked from his right side, Sherlock turned his head to see Gary standing a few feet away from him on the stairs.

  


“You were standing like that for a few minutes, haha. Thought you were thinking about getting high in the street.” Gary chuckled, he was just a kid, no more than twenty three. Sherlock sighed, in any other circumstances it would be his priority to get this kid out of here. Out of this unhealthy, morose place, getting rid of his addictions. He wasn’t a hero, but he loved to help people sometimes.

  


But wrong time, wrong place. He wasn’t coming here to save someone, he was coming here to save himself from drowning. He walked inside the house.

  


He crashed at his usual place and went with his usual routine. Mix, make solution, inject, retract.

  


And then he got high.

  


_So high that he couldn’t even see John. And John couldn’t see him. His chest didn’t hurt anymore; the chemicals running through his veins, calming everything. All the wounds that were opened filled with ice. So numb. So good. Nothing made sense. He was floating and rising. Everything looked so small. Colours were so bright. So soft. He didn’t feel anything. So happy._

 

He didn’t visit Bart’s the next day, or the next day after that. Or the next week. He hadn't gone to pester the Yard. He only once called Lestrade about the case. It was solved. Just a typical case of some junkies fighting.

  


_Wasn’t he a junkie too, now?_

__  
  


And then he was out everyday, getting high. Numbing his nerves with more and more drugs. Reducing the intervals in between, changing and increasing the mix. He was becoming more and more like Shezza; Sherlock was almost dead. Sherlock was going to die anyway. No ship could float comfortably and safely without an anchor.

  


Sherlock came back to his senses as someone jerked him violently. 

  


“Mr Holmes? Sherlock? Can you hear me?” A voice was asking him.

  


He opened his eyes, the lights too bright. It hurt. He blinked a few times, his vision adjusting slowly. 

  


And he saw John. The blue eyes looking back at him. But the blue was colder.

  


_No._

__  
  


_Not John._

__  
  


It was Phil. Agent Phil Rask. FBI.

  


_They do look similar. In a way._

__  
  


“God Sherlock! What are you doing here? In this mess?” Phil was genuinely surprised, that enough was clear from his voice.

  


Sherlock chose not to answer, turning his face the other way.

  


“You're high.” A more surprised tone followed.

  


“Yes I am high! Not your concern!” Sherlock snapped. He tried to stand up, failing miserably.

  


_Still high. The drugs haven’t worn off then._

  


“Jesus, Sherlock, come with me. Let me take you home.” Phil put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, assisting him while Sherlock was struggling, trying to stand him up. Sherlock resisted for a moment, then gave in and complied.

  


The cabbie looked at Sherlock with narrow eyes, but didn’t utter a word. 

  


Before long, they arrived at 221B. Phil’s hand gripping Sherlock, helping him up the stairs.

  


Sherlock entered the darkened flat and just sat on the carpet in the living room. He heard Phil roam around the flat briefly until he stopped at the kitchen. 

  


“Here.” A hand offered him a glass of water, Sherlock took it. He heard a soft thud in front of him. Phil was looking at him with hard, blue eyes.

  


“That’s really bad for your reputation, you know. London’s famous consulting detective in a drug den. Quite the news.”

  


“I am going to say it again and I do loathe to repeat myself. Not. Your. Concern.” Sherlock retorted between clenched teeth. 

  


“Oh no, quite the opposite to be honest. I kind of like you like this.” Phil’s voice suddenly went an octave lower. “And I like this stubble. Makes you look dangerous.” A hand brushed softly at Sherlock’s cheek.

  


Sherlock reverted his gaze to look at Phil properly and in the faint light from the street lamps, he saw Phil’s eyes, dilated, almost black. His breathing a little fast, pulse hammering in his neck, his tongue darting, moistening his lower lip.

  


It was lust. Phil wanted him.

  


Sherlock didn’t think twice. He didn’t need to. He just gave in to his transport.

  


Suddenly, he was crushing his mouth against Phil’s, who was returning the kiss with the same eagerness. Maybe more. One hand was on Sherlock’s t-Shirt, clutching it. The other gripped tightly in Sherlock’s hair.

  


Sherlock started moaning in his throat. He hadn’t had one of these experiences in a long time. God, how much he craved this contact. He didn’t know before. He lived copious sleepless nights thinking about how John’s lips would feel on his, anticipating a kiss that never happened. But this, this was good. This felt like oxygen, like he was breathing for the first time.

  


Phil’s lips felt so good. 

  


_Do John’s lips feel better than this? It does, obviously. Although you will never know that in this life._

__  
  


Sherlock’s eyes almost watered.

  


They broke the kiss for a moment. Sherlock was panting, Phil’s lips were parted, moist and glistening.

  


“Bedroom.” Sherlock demanded.  

  


Phil just growled salaciously in answer. 

  


They both stood up, their limbs tangling with each other. Phil was clutching at Sherlock ravenously, holding onto him like glue. His lips crushed on Sherlock's for another kiss. Sherlock parted his lips and Phil took the opportunity, devouring him with his tongue. It was dirty and exciting and Sherlock felt himself melting into the kiss.

  


Then, Phil pinned Sherlock on the bathroom door; the man was extraordinarily strong, Sherlock realized. He pinned Sherlock’s hands over his head and bit down at Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock tasted blood, he felt ecstatic and then Phil broke the kiss.

  


He heard Phil mutter under his breath.

  


“You exquisite creature, Fuck! How much I want you right now.” Phil was crushing him, pressing their cocks together. Rubbing them. Both hardening.

  


And then he bit down onto Sherlock’s neck.

  


Sherlock cried out in the tangled sensation of pain and pleasure. His eyes almost rolling back into his head. Phil was growling and licking at Sherlock’s neck.

  


“Bed. Please. Now.” Sherlock whimpered.

  


Phil stilled for a moment and in the next second he was dragging Sherlock to the bed.

  


Then, it was a rustle of clothes; a tearing sound brought Sherlock’s senses back for a little while. Phil had torn Sherlock's dirty t-shirt in half and was looking at his bare chest with an expression of awe.

  


“You are a marvellous creature, aren’t you Sherlock?” His words dripping with lust.

  


Sherlock’s lips trembled, he didn’t answer. He was so high and horny, he had never felt like this before.

  


“I am going to fuck you up real good, you fucker. I am gonna fuck you like nobody ever fucked you before. I am gonna make you cum so hard that you will see Jesus fucking Christ.” Phil continued saying, stripping himself and Sherlock. Running his hands around Sherlock’s body.

  


“Mmm. Fuck! Look how pale you are, God, you are so little Sherlock. So very little.” Phil was humming.

  


Sherlock purred involuntarily.

  


“You like it rough Sherlock, don’t you? I will give you rough, you big man.”

  


Phil licked at Sherlock’s neck, grazing his tongue over pale flesh. Then another, on his chest. Phil then took one of Sherlock’s nipples in his mouth and rolled it with his tongue.

  


“Ahhhhh. Oh god.” Sherlock moaned loudly. He was so relieved that Mrs Hudson wasn’t there.

  


“Oh yes! You like that. Aren’t you a shiny new toy, you big man? The more I explore, the more I know." Phil continued licking his nipple, flicking it with his tongue while twisting the other between his fingers.

  


Sherlock let out another loud, wanton moan.

  


Phil moved again, tongue swirling around Sherlock’s navel, going down again, stopping near Sherlock’s hardened cock, pre-cum already leaking copiously.

  


“God. If this isn't the most glorious cock I have seen in my entire fucking life." 

  


Sherlock felt Phil’s hot breath on his cock.

  


Suddenly, in the next moment, Phil took him in his mouth.

  


Sherlock’s eyes rolled back into his head, his hands clenching around the sheets. Phil was sucking non-stop, humming in his throat, sending jolts of sensation like electricity to his brain.

  


Sherlock was on verge of coming. Then Phil swiftly let him go. Sherlock let out a breath; he hadn’t realised that he had stopped breathing.

  


“On your stomach.” Phil demanded. 

  


And Sherlock followed; keeping himself elevated on his arms and knees, his arse raised in front of Phil.

  


“Second drawer.” He murmured breathily. Phil took the hint as he leant over and opened the drawer, procuring the hardly used bottle of lube.

  


Sherlock felt the slick that was ice cold, dripping down his perineum, towards his arsehole. He shivered at the chilly sensation.

  


“Fuck, you are so tight!” Phil groaned.

  


Sherlock felt himself relax a little more.

  


“More, give me more!” Sherlock demanded shakily.

  


“Oh yes, I will give you more, my man.” Phil was panting like he was running a marathon.

  


Then, he shoved three fingers in at once. Sherlock winced, but the uneasy feeling went after a few seconds.

  


“Please, now. Do it. Please.” Sherlock moaned lewdly.

  


“Please what big man? Tell me. I need to hear it.” 

  


“Fuck me, Phil. Fuck me now!“

  


“Oh fuck, I will.”

  


Sherlock heard a packet tearing and the after a few seconds, he felt the tip of Phil’s cock at his entrance. Teasing him.

  


“For fuck’s sake. Do it now.” Sherlock groaned.

  


“Aren’t you demanding? You exquisite creature.“ Phil laughed and shoved himself into Sherlock.

  


“Ahhh. Oh my god. Oh god. Fuck.” Sherlock started to tremble at the sensation. His arms gave way and his head fell back on the pillow. He was so full, so overwhelmed.

  


_Does John’s cock feel like this? Guess what? Never gonna know that either._

__  
  


Phil started to move slowly, pacing faster with each thrust.

  


“Fuck, oh fuck, fuckinggodjesus Christ.” Phil was swearing endlessly.

  


Then Sherlock felt Phil wrap himself around Sherlock. Sherlock felt his hot breath on his neck, his tongue licking and grazing Sherlock’s neck. Phil was now thrusting frantically. Then, his hand wrapped around Sherlock’s length and started stroking it. 

  


It took only six strokes and then Phil bit down at Sherlock’s neck. And Sherlock came. Spilling himself over Phil’s hand. His world went white and he saw stars, the orgasm consuming him from the inside out.

  


He went numb. Phil was still thrusting.

  


“Fuck, oh fuck! Fuck.” Sherlock heard Phil swearing again. And then Phil came. 

  


Sherlock’s knees crumbled onto the bed. Phil was breathing deeply, still inside him. Sherlock stayed like that for minutes. He felt Phil as he moved, easing himself out of Sherlock, collapsing on the bed beside him. Sherlock heard him snoring after a few minutes. He couldn’t keep his eyes open. The post orgasm bliss and the drugs still in his system made him drift away. And he went to sleep.

  


  


 

The phone kept ringing and Sherlock flung his eyes open. He sat up in a rush giving his head whiplash. He rubbed his eyes and then looked down beside him.

  


Phil was still sleeping, his ashy blonde hair glistening in the sunlight.

  


A chill ran down Sherlock’s spine, memories of the night before just coming back to him.

  


What has he done?

 

 


	2. Isolated system

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update. I am so busy with my studies. It's gonna be late for every chapter actually.  
> Hope you enjoy. :)

He was staring at the bathroom mirror, his reflection depicting a mockery of his usual self; two day stubble, his unruly mop of hair sticking out at different angles and dark circles dwelling under his eyes.

  
His knuckles were white from clutching at the basin with too much strength, his eyes were a little bloodshot and his hands were shaking. The withdrawal. He needs to take another shot.

  
_Not just now. Phil is sleeping in the next room, for god’s sake. He can’t get high in his presence._

_  
_ The bathroom door shifted, Sherlock eliciting a deep breath through his nose at the interruption.

  
Sherlock glanced over his back to see Phil walking in, already dressed with his unkempt bed hair.

  
Phil walked closer and Sherlock felt the warmth radiating from him, noticing how surprisingly good it felt.

  
“Good morning, gorgeous man.” Phil wrapped one hand around Sherlock’s waist, nuzzling into his shoulder. 

  
“Good morning.” Sherlock replied as he pursed his lips.

  
“Mmm... I gotta run, have some enquiries to do.” Phil brushed his lips against Sherlock’s neck. “Would have loved to make you some breakfast, you know as gratitude for last night’s marvellous sex.” Sherlock felt Phil grinning.

  
“Phil... this... last night... I mean...” Sherlock started to stutter.

  
“Oh no, I ain’t listening to any 'last night just happened bullshit'. You aren't getting rid of me that easy.”

  
Sherlock didn’t reply, continuing to keep his gaze concentrated on the faucet in front of him. 

  
Phil nuzzled again at Sherlock’s shoulder, one hand brushing over the bite mark he gave last night; he then dropped his hand and was swiftly out of the bathroom.

  
Sherlock waited for a few moments in the bathroom alone. Phil was not going away that easily. Considering his state he could always use a distraction; sex could always work as a distraction. 

 

He adjusted his dressing gown, fastening the sash tighter and walked out of the bathroom.

  
He headed for the living room and froze in his place.

  
Sitting in John’s chair, fastening his shoelaces, was John. His hair shining in the sunlight that was creeping from the windows.

  
Sherlock stopped breathing for a moment.

  
Then John looked up.

  
And Sherlock saw a pair of cold blue eyes staring back at him.

  
John is warm. Not cold.

  
_Not John._

_  
Just Phil._

_  
_ It was physically hurting Sherlock to see him sitting in John's chair.

  
Sherlock started walking again as Phil stood up.

  
“Okay, I'm out, will meet up with you later, okay? Take care.”

  
Sherlock blinked in approval.

  
And Phil was out, giving a wink as he strolled out of the room.

  
Sherlock stood in the middle of the living room, his whole world lurching in confusion. He was trying to keep his mind on track; to think straight, to think about the reality of what he was doing. Phil Rask was not an easy man, which was clear as day. But easy never worked for him, did it?

  
_But what about John? What about him?_

_  
_ John hadn't bothered to call, and he hadn't attempted either. Sherlock let the irrational side of his mind win.

  
Let us give in to the transport, let us numb the pain.

  
Yes, definitely a yes to numbing the pain.

 

Sherlock locked the doors and returned to his room.

  
_Not seven percent. Let us make this a bit stronger, need to keep you off my mind, John. Can’t let you climb up into every thought and every moment and make my torment worse. You got your life and I am going to live my barren imitation of a life._

_  
_ Then it was the same procedure as always, pushing in the needle; the solution running through his veins, consuming all of his pain. Nobody could see him again. The whole of London dancing around him, he is the centre. Alone.

  
Sherlock moved John’s chair into the basement of 221C that night.

  


  


 

  


  
Sherlock was waiting at Marylebone tube station; Phil had told him to meet him there, he apparently had needed help with the drug enquiry. Sherlock was fiddling with cold cases now-a-days, and at the chance of something new, he couldn’t deny the opportunity.

  
_Isn’t Phil a little late? No, he is just early. Is he really that desperate?_

_  
_ It was three days after the 'high on drugs sex session' at 221B. Sherlock didn’t see Phil in between, he couldn’t (wouldn't) call, he didn’t want to present himself as too desperate.

  
Then there was a message this morning, “Need some help with the case; meet me at Marylebone tube station, 7 p.m.”

  
And there he was. Sherlock spotted Phil, talking into his mobile, walking towards him. Sherlock lifted his hand, Phil nodded in return.

  
_No, he doesn’t walk like John. John walked like the soldier he is; Phil walked in an attempt to charm everyone around him._

_  
_ “Okay, I'm here. Hope you weren’t waiting for long.” Phil said with a grin.

  
_This man never gives a genuine smile. God, when John smiled, the whole of 221B would light up ._

“No, absolutely not. I just arrived here just a few minutes ago, you are right on time.” Sherlock replied with a fake grin.

  
“So where are we going? Are we going to meet someone?”

  
“No, we are going to sit somewhere and talk about this case.” Phil started walking again, keeping his eyes at the phone in his hand.

  
“We could sit at your place or my place to talk about the case, couldn’t we?” Sherlock asked, a bit confused, continuing to walk beside Phil.

  
“Yeah, of course we could. I just wanted to eat something good and to sit somewhere decent enough.”

  
“Are you are telling me my flat isn’t decent enough?” Sherlock challenged in a sarcastic tone.

  
“No, absolutely not. After the mind shattering sex on your bed, I cannot even complain about anything from your place.” Phil looked at Sherlock, his tongue grazing his lower lip, his eyes flickered for a moment to Sherlock’s lips and then back to his eyes.

  
Sherlock felt a knot in his stomach and he took a big gulp, the hair on his neck stood up, he had almost forgotten how good it felt to be the centre of somebody’s attention.

  
_Like the way John looked at me, like the times we used to orbit around each other; just the two of us against the world. Just the two of us, together._

_  
_ Phil stopped walking. “Here we are, I’ve got us a table booked. The food here is exquisite. Back in Miami someone told me to try the King Prawn Curry here - one of their specials. God I love prawn, can’t wait to...”

  
Sherlock couldn’t hear anything. His feet were glued to the pavement, his whole world was spinning. Phil had brought him to The Landmark.

  
_The place where he got John back after all the years, the place where he lost John to a woman, the place where his dreams died._

_  
_ Sherlock felt like he would be sick, his stomach churned, his vision going blurry.

  
_I can’t do this. Can’t go in there again. Too much. Too much pain. What if John is there? What if I lose him again? Didn’t I lose him already? What if this is just a nightmare? What if I am stuck in a loop? Maybe I will get John back and lose him again and again._

_  
_ “You okay?” Sherlock blinked, returning back to reality as Phil stood in front of him, a question in his eyes.

  
Sherlock let out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. 

  
“I'm fine.”

  
Sherlock said, not meeting Phil’s gaze.

  
“Okay then, let's get inside.” Phil started walking again.

  
Sherlock followed, dragging his feet behind Phil, the wound in his heart threatening to open up again.

  
The place looked the same. Different people, different situations, but the giant anvil over Sherlock’s heart felt the same. 

  
The waiter came with the menu, Phil ordered, Sherlock didn’t. Phil insisted; still he didn’t.

  
_I have got a seven percent solution in my bloodstream. I don’t need to eat and certainly not here._

_  
_ “So what do you do in your spare time? Like when you're not on any cases?” Phil asked, sipping nonchalantly at his glass of water.

  
“I...” Sherlock stopped abruptly, looking at the candle on the table, eyeing the waiter approaching the table with an expensive wine bottle in hand.

  
“What is this Phil? Is it really about the case? Because nothing here looks like it's just for a casual meeting.” 

  
“Not easy to fool you, right?” Phil pursed his lips. 

  
“It’s a date, I like to take people on dates. Had an idea that you would back off if I asked you out. So, I resorted to trickery. Sorry about that.” Phil smirked and stuck his tongue out playfully.

  
_A date? Didn’t he used to take John on dates like this? Not telling him that it was a date. The first night at Angelo’s, wasn’t there a candle on the table too? Didn’t he dream about asking John out on a proper date someday? Ordering expensive champagne, bitching and deducing the people around them, laughing about the whole world and maybe when they got back on their sanctuary at 221B, they could..._

_  
_ Sherlock cut off the direction his thoughts were going.

  
“I don’t do much except working on cases. I used to play the violin, haven’t played since I got back.”

  
“Oh yes, you were dead for two years, weren’t you?” Phil stuck his fork into the food before him, lifting some of it and munching thoughtfully. 

  
”How does being dead feel like?”

  
“Didn’t suit me.” Sherlock replied.

  
“So, your blogger, Dr. Watson, there were all kinds of rumour in the media about you two. What about that?”

  
“What about what Phil?” Sherlock looked straight into Phil’s eyes.

  
“I mean, just friends, you two?”

  


_Just friends. Oh yes. Absolutely._

_  
_ “We used to be flatmates. And best friends. Not used to be, we still are best friends.” Sherlock said, fiddling with his napkin.

  
_Yes, lies and lies. Sherlock Holmes is made of lies. It felt like his inner voice was talking like Moriarty._

_  
_ “And he got married, right? That’s why he doesn’t accompany you anymore.” 

  
“Yes, he has a domestic life now.”

  
_Which doesn’t include me._

_  
_ “It’s difficult for him to get time for these things.” Sherlock looked out the window, his face melancholic from thinking about John. 

  
_I wonder where John is now? At the clinic maybe, or out with Mary. I miss the evenings we spent together in front of the fireplace._

_  
_ “Hmm, I see.” Phil took another bite of his prawn.

  
“Do you still need help with your case or something? Otherwise, I am losing interest here.” Sherlock said, with a mix of annoyance in his voice.

  
“Oh yes, I am really stuck on something.“ Phil replied cheekily while he fished out his phone.

  


  


 

  


 

 

“Oh, god yes, like that. Jesus!” Phil continued with his usual swearing.

  
They had ended up in Phil’s hotel room after dinner, they didn’t even make it to the bed this time.

  
“God, your mouth Sherlock!” Phil was writhing on the carpet, his eyes unfocused, their clothes scattered around the room.

  


Sherlock had taken Phil in his mouth and started sucking vigorously, earning scream after scream from Phil. Phil tangled his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, taking a fist full, yanking painfully to pull Sherlock away.

  


“No, I'm too close. Stop. Stop now!”

  


Phil sat up abruptly and gripped Sherlock, stopping him. Then he put both of his hands around Sherlock’s waist and shoved him onto the carpet.

  
“On your stomach, big guy.”

  
Sherlock was quite relieved that Phil liked it this way, never facing him. This was better than facing him and remembering John in every muscles and every inch of Phil’s face.

  
Sherlock realized he was going to get carpet burn like this, but that didn’t matter, he just obeyed. His mind way too crowded with desire to think about anything else.

 

He felt Phil’s touch go away for a minute and he looked at his own cock, hardened, dark and leaking copiously.

  
And then Phil was back.

  
Sherlock expected the usual one finger, but then he felt more than a lube covered finger entering him. 

  
“Oh, God!” Sherlock winced in pain.

  
“Like that? Huh? You can take more and more, can’t you?”

  
_Yes, Sherlock did like that. Sherlock liked pain. Sherlock liked sex. Sherlock liked drugs. Sherlock can like anything at this point to make himself forget about John._

_  
_ Sherlock felt Phil stop for a moment, felt Phil’s hands travelling over his body, stopping at his arse, grabbing both of his arse cheeks.

  
“God, you have the best ass in the whole wide world Sherlock. I have had my fair share of partners, both genders. But this, I have never seen anything like this.” Phil growled.

  
“Don’t stop!” Sherlock answered from between gritted teeth. “Don’t praise, just continue what you are doing.”

  
_He didn’t need praise. He didn’t need kind words. Not from Phil at least. The only person whose praise mattered, was sleeping with his wife at this very moment._

_  
_ Sherlock tasted blood, he didn’t realize he actually bit his tongue.

  
Phil was more than eager to continue with what he was doing.

  
Sherlock felt three lubed fingers scissoring him open; he didn’t relax, he didn’t need to relax.

  
And then Phil shoved himself in him, wrapping his body around Sherlock. Grunting, his tongue travelling at the nape of Sherlock’s neck, darting around the already fading bite mark from their last encounter.

  
Sherlock smelt Phil, he had a typical musky scent, very masculine. Suddenly Sherlock realized he missed the scent of woollen cardigans and tea.

  
_Stop thinking about him, he doesn’t care, he isn’t here. He doesn’t call._

_  
_ Phil was thrusting fervently, Sherlock raising his hips a little to match the brisk pace.

“Fuck, Oh fuck. Sweet mother of Jesus.”  Phil was babbling meaninglessly and thrusting mercilessly at this point.

  
And then Sherlock came untouched, Phil following a little after. Both were breathing heavily as they squirmed together on the carpet.

  
The moment Phil moved and pulled out, Sherlock stood up straight and bolted to the bathroom. Cleaning himself rapidly, he then collected his clothes and started to get ready.

  
“You're leaving already?” Phil was still on the carpet. “I thought maybe you'd stay for another session.”

  
“Sorry, something just popped up. Thank you for the dinner and this...” Sherlock clenched his jaw.

  
“Sure. Call me?” Phil grinned.

  
“I will.”

  
Sherlock was almost running down the street, barely acknowledging the traffic and busy crowd surrounding him, bumping into people, his hands shaking. He needed a shot, very soon. His eyes were watering.

  
He never noticed the security cameras following his movements the entire way home.

 

 

 

Sherlock was not surprised to discover Mycroft sitting in the living room one morning; the usual expression of not caring about anything in the world marking his face.

  
Sherlock knew why he was there; still, he pointedly ignored his brothers' presence as usual.

  
“I was almost uncertain as to whether I would find you here.” Mycroft announced, breaking the silence.

  
Sherlock turned and paced towards the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water, continuing to say nothing.

  
“It has been observed, that lately you've been spending a lot of time in the presence of 'what’s his name'...” Mycroft pulled out his notebook, ”Agent Phil Rask; FBI.” Mycroft sneered in disdain, closing his notebook and returning it to his pocket.

  
Sherlock was still silent.

  
“I sincerely hope you understand the situation you are putting yourself into.” Mycroft persisted while he frowned at Sherlock.

  
“Ooh, it is absolutely heart-warming to be the centre of your brotherly concern, Mycroft. Now piss off!” Sherlock snarled.

  
“Is this for him? John? Is this like some twisted form of grieving or something?”

  
“Grieving? Why should I grieve for John? He is most certainly not dead. Do I look like his widow to you...? Grieve!” Sherlock turned away, his face was turning red.

  


_Yes I am grieving. You know everything Mycroft. Do you also know that I take an eight percent solution now? Or that Phil never faces me when he fucks my brains out? Or that I am actually continuously thinking about John despite trying my best to not think about him? That drugs and sex are not enough to cure a broken heart?_

__  
  


“John surely grieved like your widow when you weren’t around.”

  
Sherlock bit down at his lip.

  
“And you didn’t stop him from getting a life when I was gone; when I was no longer welcomed! You knew I was coming back anyway!”

  
“So you are telling me that this is my fault now?” Mycroft cocked his eyebrows in challenge.

  
“God, no! This is entirely my doing, I'm just living the consequences of the choices I made. Everyone just played along...” Sherlock mumbled, focusing on the busy street outside his window to distract himself.

 

“About Phil, Sherlock, he is not what he seems to be.” Mycroft’s voice was laced with concern.

 

_Don’t give me that voice, Mycroft. I don’t need anyone’s concern._

 

“I know what he is Mycroft. He is danger. He is a volcano just waiting to erupt at the right moment. And he is also the exact thing I need at this moment. So, he is going to linger around me. I need that.”  


“Still, I thought I needed to remind you how dangerous attachments are. You have had your fair share of heartbreak, I presume.”

 

_I don’t have a heart anymore, so there's no chance of breaking something which does not exist._

 

“This 'thing' with Phil has no participation of my heart in it, Mycroft. It is all for the sake of transport.”

 

_And numbing the pain._

 

“But...” Mycroft opened his mouth to interrupt.

 

Sherlock glared at Mycroft with ice cold eyes.

 

“I am not a child anymore Mycroft.”

 

“No, you absolutely are not.” Mycroft gave a tight lipped smile, got up and left the flat, swinging his umbrella in tow.

 

“Take care, brother mine.” His voice came from the staircase. Sherlock closed the door with a loud thud.

 

Time for another dose.

 

  


  


 

Sherlock watched with horror as Phil twisted the arm of the man with an audible cracking sound. The man screamed in pain. Phil landed a slap on the man’s face, earning another scream in reply. 

 

“If you do not stop screaming right this moment, I will make sure you never get to use your dominant hand again, I will break each finger, each knuckle, taking my sweet time and I will break them one by one, Ryan.” Phil hissed.

 

The man was bleeding from his mouth where Phil landed the punch at his face. Phil’s fist was covered in blood.

  
Sherlock had agreed to accompany Phil to a routine enquiry, to talk with some contacts, but nothing useful came up, resulting in Phil’s fury.

  
Sherlock couldn’t move an inch from his place. Phil was dangerous, he knew that, but seeing the things he is capable of doing, was something else entirely.

 

Phil growled in frustration, letting the man go from his grip. The man ran, sobbing and whimpering.

 

“Rat shit piece of mother fucker.” Phil kicked the dustbin in dissatisfaction.

 

“Phil?” Sherlock muttered. 

 

Phil scowled and stared icily into Sherlock's eyes.

 

“Do you understand, Sherlock? Another dead end, piles and piles of dead ends! Fuck this shit!”

 

“Phil, listen to me, I can...” Phil cut him off by grabbing Sherlock's hand and leading them to a more darkened alleyway.

 

“You are now going to shut your mouth, Sherlock Holmes,” Phil started to unbuckle Sherlock’s belt.

 

“And let me fuck you like the bitch you are.”  

 

Once his fly was open, Sherlock knew what was going to happen next.

 

Phil looked at Sherlock for a moment, a crooked smile on his lips.

 

“Really, Sherlock? No underwear? You are a little slut aren’t you?” Phil swiftly pulled Sherlock’s pants down to his knees, effectively trapping Sherlock in place.

 

Sherlock froze for a moment.

 

_Is Phil gonna fuck me here? In the alleyway? In public?_

 

The thought of getting fucked in public ran a shiver down Sherlock’s spine, from both excitement and an unknown fear. He almost wanted to shame himself for getting excited; this was wrong, so very wrong from every angle. He wanted to say no, but his body was betraying him. He wanted this, wanted to have sex in a darkened alleyway with a dangerous man. He wanted exactly this, at this very moment, more than anything.

 

But he tried to protest verbally anyway.   


“Phil, please!” Sherlock pleaded vaguely.

 

Phil was busy opening his own trousers, he looked at Sherlock and Sherlock saw Phil’s hardened cock, fully aroused; his own cock was in a similar state.

 

Phil came closer, pushing Sherlock violently against the closest wall. "Tell me the truth Sherlock," Phil hissed, his teeth clenched. "You want this, don’t you?”

 

Sherlock looked at the glaring eyes for a few seconds. Phil’s pupils were blown wide, his darkened eyes made him look more menacing than he already was.  


_Sherlock Holmes loves danger. And dangerous people. Phil is dangerous. Was John dangerous too?_

 

“Yes I do.” Sherlock replied, fluttering his eyes.  


Phil groaned and caught Sherlock’s mouth in a ravaging kiss. Sherlock felt Phil’s teeth piercing the soft tissue of his lip, the tangy taste of blood smeared on his tongue and around his mouth. Phil broke the kiss and Sherlock saw Phil lick the blood from his lower lip.

 

Phil lifted two fingers and touched them to Sherlock’s lips.

 

”Suck... Suck them real good, because that’s the only lubrication you are getting here.”

 

Sherlock couldn’t help but moan and did as he was told, sucking the two fingers as best as he could, lapping clumsily, soaking the digits in his saliva. 

 

Phil gripped their cocks together with his other hand and started to stroke them together.

 

“That’s enough.” Phil stopped and removed his fingers out of Sherlock’s mouth.

 

“Now face the wall!” 

 

Sherlock’s body was shivering from the excitement and utter wrongness of the whole situation.

 

_Relax, you are just giving in to transport._

 

He felt Phil push the two fingers roughly into him, Sherlock clenched his teeth, the saliva was barely enough. This was definitely going to end badly.

 

_Don’t care as long as it helps to keep the mind occupied._ __  
  


Phil was groaning; muttering. He curved his fingers, brushing against Sherlock’s prostrate.

 

Sherlock cried out at the sensation.

 

“Shut up! Shut the fuck up!" Phil groaned. His one hand pinning Sherlock brutally into the brick wall. “You are gonna get us arrested.”  


“I'm sorry. Oh god yeeeess.” Sherlock screamed again.

 

Phil shoved Sherlock's head on the wall a bit too roughly and Sherlock winced in pain. He felt the skin of his cheek being grazed by the course texture of the bricks. Suddenly, Phil’s hand was wrapped over Sherlock’s mouth.

 

“You don’t listen, Sherlock. You absolutely don’t listen.”

 

Sherlock felt the tip of Phil’s cock at his entrance and then he felt Phil forcefully push himself inside of him.

 

That was painful. Sherlock’s eyes watered. He wanted to scream his lungs out but Phil’s hand was tightly wrapped around his mouth, not even allowing a whimper from Sherlock. 

Everything was muffled, Sherlock felt Phil’s damp breath on his neck. Phil’s other hand, which was free now, was holding Sherlock’s waist with an iron grip, Sherlock was sure it would bruise in the shape of finger tips. 

 

Phil didn’t even touch Sherlock’s cock, he was busy taking his own pleasure and Sherlock was not in any position to move his hand. He was half awake, adrenaline rushing through his body, the excitement of the sex drowning his logical mind. Sherlock’s eyes almost rolled back into his skull. 

  


And then he came.   


There was a groan from Phil and Sherlock felt him come, filling him from inside.

 

Sherlock stood there with his forehead resting on the wall while Phil was panting on his back. Abruptly, the pressure was gone as Phil slid from him.

 

Sherlock felt utterly humiliated. He heard Phil pull up his own trousers, buckling his belt. While he stood there, cum sprouted on his front, dripping from his arsehole and down his thighs. Phil didn't even bother to help him. 

  
“Put on your trousers, don’t stand there like a teenager getting their ass fucked for the first time.” Sherlock heard the click of a lighter as Phil lit a cigarette.

  
“I'm gonna wait on the road, clean yourself up."

 

Sherlock waited for a few moments, listening to Phil’s receding footsteps, standing in the darkened alleyway alone.

 

He couldn’t blame Phil, this was consensual. Whatever the consequences might be, he started this in his sane mind.

 

_John would never leave me like this. John would never humiliate me like this. John would never make me feel little._

 

_John would never be mine._

 

Sherlock returned to 221B alone, dragging his unwilling body up the 17 stairs towards his flat. His head hurt, his whole body was aching, he was disgusted with himself.

 

Mrs. Hudson could have asked something, but he didn’t hear. He was so sore. Phil was rough this time. He couldn’t walk with ease.

 

He slowly got rid of his coat, didn’t bother to change and went straight to bed. The cut on his cheekbone was burning. Maybe it needed some antiseptic or something? He didn’t have the energy.

 

_John would have taken care of this. He would wash the cut, clean it and apply something. Would have scolded me a little._

 

_Would have taken me to bed. Would have kissed my pain away._

 

_Wasn’t the whole purpose of this to forget John? To replace his painful memories with something more painful and distracting? Look how good that’s working. All thought’s ended up in John. Again._

 

The extra strong solution ran through his veins again. Chasing Fire, consuming every sorrow in it's path. The long tongue of cold oblivion kissed his pain away. The kiss felt like Phil’s.

  


_John was never mine._

_  
_ Sherlock lost himself in limbo. Ignoring the world and its content and John and the solar system and the universe. He wouldn’t care if there was another world war outside, he was already a dead man walking.

  
He didn’t notice when his phone vibrated, he was too lost to notice anything.

 

One new message. 

  


 

“Tomorrow 4 p.m. Be there. John.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hit me up at [tumblr](http://love-in-mind-palace.tumblr.com)  
> Don't forget to leave kudos and comments. :D


	3. Entropy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extremely sorry for the late update. I was so busy. And it is festival season here. So here is a new chapter. Thanks for keeping up with me. And again thanks to my beta Louise for being the best beta in the world.  
> Hope you enjoy the chapter. Don't forget to tell me if you like it or not. :)

  
Sherlock was sitting with anticipation on his chair with his violin in hand.

 

He had been sitting like this for the better half of an hour.

Sheet music in front of him, he had neglected to play a single note.

It was 3.55 p.m., John should be here by now. Sherlock was getting restless.

 

His whole day was stretched unnecessarily; Molly called him to Bart’s, there was a new dead body with some symptoms which she thought Sherlock might appreciate, he really didn't want to go. 

 

What if John came to 221B early and left because he was not there? 

Would John wait for him? 

_He didn't before._

 

He strode briskly the entire time, walking fast and talking fast as he entered the building. He knew he was throwing a tantrum; Molly was having a hard time keeping up with him, Sherlock had noticed that, but didn't care.

 

“Sherlock, are you okay?” Sherlock looked up to see Molly glancing at him with a worried expression.

 

“Yes, I'm okay? Why wouldn't I be okay?”

 

“You've been looking at that empty Petri dish for about five minutes now.” Molly chuckled nervously.  


“Oh. Sorry. I was thinking… Was in… In my mind palace.” Sherlock said distractedly, already mentally preparing for his meeting with John. 

  


  


3.58 p.m

Sherlock heard a knock on the main door, heard Mrs. Hudson approaching the door and then a unmistakable footstep, one that he had heard a long time ago, a tenor he had dearly missed. 

It was like being interrupted from a half awakened dream.

Then a familiar voice, mumbling softly with Mrs. Hudson.

 

Sherlock tightened the scarf around his neck, he had started wearing it indoors after Phil became quite aggressive with the whole biting practice. The hickeys were much too visible in contrast with his pale skin. Shirt collars were not enough, therefore scarf.

 

_No sign of any addiction should be visible to the naked eye. Applies to the drug as well as the man._

Sherlock heard soft footsteps approaching up the stairs, small soft steps. Not the usual pace, a little bit slower; measured. Like the owner of them was afraid that heavy footsteps would make the stairs break.

 

His heart started racing.

_Is he that reluctant to visit me? Then he shouldn’t have arranged the rendezvous. Don’t be a child. He is still your friend, he cares. Still he didn’t call in the last one and a half months._

_You didn’t call either. Why? Because there was a chance you would hear his happy voice telling you how happy his domestic life is going. How happy he is with his lovely wife and expected child; all confirming the fact of how happy he is without you in his life. You are selfish, aren’t you Sherlock? Don’t you remember the big quotations about love? How love is seeing someone you love, being happy, even if it's not with you. Don’t you call yourself a sociopath? Aren’t you above everything by which the commonwealth is bound? Didn’t you used to think that you were superior?_

 

Sherlock wanted to hit himself in the head repetitively until he bled. His own thoughts were turning on him, clouding with pessimism. He was still sitting in his spot when John walked through the door.

And to Sherlock's own surprise, his first impulse was to run towards John and hug him tightly, smell him, fill his own nose with the familiar cardigan, tea, soap, aftershave and warm sent which defined John uniquely.  


That’s really odd. Have they even hugged in their shared life?

Once.

After Sherlock's best man speech at John's wedding.

_John's wedding._

Did they touch each other?

_Sometimes._

When Sherlock made John take his phone out of his pocket although being perfectly capable of doing that himself. John showed irritation but actually obliged anyway, John never said no.

Sherlock remembered how warm John's hand felt over his heart.

Did John feel his heartbeat racing?

Of course he didn't.

_I wish he did._

 

Sherlock watched as John stood in the middle of the room. John was not looking at him directly, instead he was looking around the room. His gaze stopped at the empty space where his chair used to be.

 

“My chair isn’t there.” John said, pointing at the space.

 

“I sent it to the basement... Was blocking my view to the kitchen.” Sherlock made a vague gesture with his hand, which was still holding the bow.

 

“Ooh right. It’s good to be missed.” John raised his eyebrows satirically.

 

“You were gone, I saw an opportunity.” Sherlock replied as nonchalantly as possible.

 

_Please snap at me. Please. Please._ __  
  


“You saw the kitchen.” John was nodding his head. 

 

_Angry? No. Amused maybe._

 

Sherlock was disappointed, but remained impassive to the unobservant eye.

John proceeded to sit on the sofa instead. 

And Sherlock got an opportunity to look at him properly.

The black jacket, usual plaid shirt, usual trousers.  _No, that’s a new pair_. Usual hair, some greys mixed with the intricate plethora of blonde and gold; w _ish I could run my hands through it_. Would he let me? Maybe. Or not. Healthier. Domestic bliss. John had certainly gained some weight. 

 

Sherlock sighed internally. He actually wanted to break something or tear something to shreds. Instead he decided to break the silence and talk.

 

“Seven pounds.”

 

“Pardon?” John replied as he looked at Sherlock with a confused expression.

 

“You have gained seven pounds. Domestic life suits you, John.”

 

“Not seven. Four and a half.” John furrowed his brows.

 

“Umm.. no. Seven.” Sherlock replied, crinkling his nose in display.

 

John made a face in disagreement. 

 

“Not just you. Mary thinks it’s seven too.”

 

“We are both right about you then.” Sherlock looked in front of him.

 

_Yes I am right about you, John Watson. Just not the right one for you._

 

There was an awkward silence, the air in the room was thick with unspoken conversation. Sherlock saw John clenching and unclenching his left fist _._

_He normally does that when he is stressed about something. What is he stressed about? He looks healthy, he must be happy, Mary is a lovely person;_

_That leaves me. He is stressed about visiting me, he must be._

_Talk about something. Just anything. Ask about Mary._

_Yes bring up the woman between us, that always works._

__  
  


“How is Mary?” Sherlock blurted out.

 

“Oh, she is okay. She is very good. Perfect." John grinned, a little crimson patch appearing on his neck.

Sherlock gulped.  _God, he is so happy. So happy. Were you ever happy while you lived with me John? You were never bored, but were you happy?_

 

"How was the honeymoon?" Sherlock forced the words out, feigning the nonchalance on the outside, pleading with everything he had that it was a convincing enough performance.

 

"Oh god, it was marvellous. The seaside, Mary loved it," John chuckled.   


"I honestly hoped you would refer to that as a sex-holiday."

 

"That's actually a better phrase to describe it." Sherlock replied with a fake smile.

 

The silence returned. 

  


Sherlock noticed John fiddling with his fingers again. Phil cracks his knuckles when he is silent. Sherlock hated that sound.

 

"What are you working on?" John stood up, straightened his back and walked towards Sherlock.

 

Sherlock didn't realise at first what John was referring to, but then John came closer, bent a little and picked up the top sheet from the pile of paper. 

Sherlock took a deep and silent breath. As he inhaled, John's scent was all over his existence, surrounding him once again. The woollen cardigan, chamomile tea, the shampoo, the soap, the aftershave, the same, it all felt the same, like being woken from a nightmare and finding out that you are home, safe and sound. 

John smelt like home, John felt like home, John was home.

 

And like the weed growing in the garden, there was another scent mixed with with John's; Claire de la lune, Mary's perfume. Sherlock never thought a perfume had the ability to stab him in the heart.

_He is hers now. Did you forget that?_

John straightened and Sherlock saw his eyes darting to the paper.

 

"You haven't named it yet...? You always name your pieces before you start." John looked at Sherlock, encouragement in his eyes. Waiting.

 

Sherlock shrugged.  


"Nothing much about it. I just didn't bother."

_I don't bother about a lot of things now-a-days John. Can't you tell?_

John looked at the page for a few more seconds and put it back on the table. Sherlock held his breath.

"Why do you have your scarf on? You never use your scarf indoors." John cocked his eyebrows.

 

"I caught a cold." Sherlock lied. He knew this question was coming.

 

"Is it your tonsils? Let me see." John came closer. Sherlock lifted his hand in protest.

 

"No it's not very serious. Don't bother, I'm alright."

 

"Okay then," John lowered his hand and backed up a little, disappointment marring his face. Sherlock returned his gaze to the fireplace.

 

"Mycroft called me..." John began, looking at his feet, his hands in his pockets.

Sherlock snapped his head and looked up at John's direction, who was refusing to meet his gaze.

_So thats why you came, John. Mycroft told you to. Look at me, stupid me. Getting all giddy and hopeful that you are visiting me on your own free will. How stupid I have become. Sentiment. Human error._

 

"What did he say?" Sherlock asked in a flat tone.

 

"Nothing, just that I am irresponsible for not calling you or not visiting you anymore in the past one and a half months." John looked up to meet Sherlock's gaze.

 

Sherlock stood up, staring coldly at John.

 

"I am not a child anymore John. I don't need to be taken care of or handled with care. I am a grown man who is more than capable of living by himself. I was perfectly capable of having a life before you were here and I can do that for the rest of my life. You should keep that in your mind and tell Mycroft the same." 

 

The atmosphere was once again uncomfortable and tense. Both of their eyes locked on each other. The street lights were on and it was falling dark outside, the soft light from the lamps illuminated John's face. Sherlock couldn't read John's expression in that light.

Sherlock couldn't read John.

John opened his mouth to break the silence.

 

"I feel like it was a mistake to come here and talk to you. It is always a bad idea to listen to Mycroft." John's tone was harsh but calm.

Sherlock was swimming in those soft, yet harsh blue eyes for some time, searching. He was not sure what he was looking for.

 

"Exactly my opinion..." Sherlock broke their gaze,

 

"Enjoy your new life, John. Don't let the past come back into it. Don't worry about me. I will be okay."

  
Sherlock let the breath out. He tightened his jaw and stiffened his shoulders.

  


"I will excuse myself then." John took a couple of steps backwards.

Sherlock didn't move from his spot nor moved a single muscle on his entire body.

 

"Give Mary my love." Sherlock said softly.

_And give her all of yours. Love her more than I love you._

 

John turned towards door, "Yes I will and...Take care Sherlock." 

He disappeared swiftly, within a blink of an eye...

 

And Sherlock realized he didn't even offer John a cup of tea.

  
Sherlock stood like that for a couple of minutes. Dazed, just thinking about nothing. He heard John's receding footsteps on the stairs, heard him slamming the door, calling a cab and Sherlock just stood there, swaying himself a little.

Sherlock wasn't sure how long he stayed like that, transfixed on his pain. His attention came back at the noise of the rather loud honking of a cab.

  


And without thinking twice Sherlock grabbed the sheet music from the table and shoved them haphazardly in the fireplace. 

The dry paper caught fire instantly. Sherlock focused on them, watching how they crumpled, the crackling sound of the fire sounded like ribs breaking; his ribs. One by one.

Only one sheet was left on the table, the one John touched. Sherlock couldn't burn that.

 

"Abstinence, I named the piece Abstinence." He whispered into the emptiness of the flat.

 

He almost waited for a reply; the usual words of praise his ears were used to hearing for the two years he lived with John. But there was no John Watson to give a reply now. 

The mute, dusty walls of 221b remained silent. Walls just listen and see, they are not known to interact much. And inside the walls, stood a broken man with a music sheet in his hand. The fireplace was burning hot. But it was in no comparison to the intensity in which the man's heart was burning.

  


What percent does it take to soothe a charred heart ?

 

 

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

Sherlock was awake when he felt Phil snuggle closer to him on the bed, the feeling of Phil's warm breath on his shoulder pulling him from his internal thoughts. Sherlock moved his gaze to the clock atop his bedside drawer; the red electronic digits illuminated the corner of the room: 1.45 a.m. 

  
It had been three days since John's visit. Sherlock could still vividly recall the stilted conversation, the bubble of hope at seeing John, the heavy feeling of disappointment and melancholy at his true intentions, the light in his eyes usually reserved for Sherlock's 'brilliant' deductions caused by someone else; the feeling of replacement only intensifying with each passing moment in his company.

The visit had cast a rather hard impression on Sherlock, he had upped his drug intake and it was better, far better. Everything felt lighter, his mind transcending into an amicable silence, lulling the pain he had accumulated.

And regarding his other addiction; the man. Phil had spent two consecutive nights in his bed and Sherlock was contemplating the consequences of his addiction.  
Phil came a little closer and Sherlock felt Phil's hard shaft brushing against his backside.

  
"I know you're awake," Phil hummed. Sherlock didn't answer, just continued staring at the table clock, saying nothing. And then he felt Phil's hand travelling all the way from his back, down to his hipbones, stopping at his half hardened cock. A warm hand brushed over his member and Sherlock's cock twitched in anticipation. 

  
"And look who is awake too," Came Phil's still sleepy voice from behind as he flicked his tongue against Sherlock's earlobe, followed by a sharp bite. Phil's fist tightened a little around Sherlock's hardening prick and Sherlock let out an involuntary moan.   
Phil's hand started to stroke Sherlock's cock and Sherlock's breath hitched. Phil had wrapped one leg around him and stopped his hand. 

And then Sherlock was facing Phil, his back on the bed, Phil kneeling over him, the moonlight lurking through the window illuminating Phil's face, his eyes reflecting the light dangerously, making him look like a predator. 

All at once, Phil's mouth was over his, devouring him. Phil's tongue parted his lips, teeth grazing over his lower lip, Phil's own musky taste was mixed with nicotine as his tongue plundered Sherlock's mouth. Their cocks were touching, both hard and leaking precum copiously. Sherlock started to return the kiss, one hand over Phil's shoulder and the other gripped onto his hair. Phil's hair was surprisingly soft, and felt so familiar. 

Sherlock opened his eyes. Yes, his hair reminded him of John's hair. As he touched it, Phil gave a stinging bite onto Sherlock's lower lip, hard enough to draw blood and to Sherlock's own surprise, it felt good.

  
Then Phil started to slide down slowly, planting bites all over Sherlock, pinching and worrying the skin between pointed teeth; one on the shoulder blade, spending a little time over it. Bruising, sucking, branding.

"Go out without the scarf next time, Sherlock. I want the world to see that I own you. I own Consulting Detective Mr. Sherlock Holmes." Phil growled. "I want them to know how every night you beg me to fuck you. How good you take my cock up your ass. My big man." 

"You do not own me Phil." Sherlock hissed from between clenched teeth. 

Phil stopped moving, his face just millimetres away from Sherlock's right nipple and looked up to meet Sherlock's gaze and asked in a voice embalmed in lust, 

"You sure?"

But before Sherlock could answer, he felt Phil's tongue on his nipple, the wet sensation jolting him, reacting like a thousand volts of electricity was plummeting into his nerves; earning a moan from Sherlock. 

Phil chuckled.

"See how I can make you dance with just my tongue? I own you Sherlock Holmes. I. Own. You." Phil was smiling; his voice was inhabited with confidence.

  
No. You. Don't.   
The man who could make me dance didn't even need to touch me, his smile was enough.

Sherlock propped himself on his elbow, making Phil sit up from his position.   
"Give me a few minutes." Sherlock said, panting. He had started to sweat a little, the withdrawal kicking in, his veins singing for temptation.

"Yes, of course but don't wank yourself in the loo." Phil replied as he shifted so Sherlock could slide down the bed.

Sherlock almost ran to the bathroom, eager to seek bliss. He started fiddling with the cupboards and swiftly found what he was searching for from its concealed position.  
Phil was in the next room, but who cared? He was itching for release and it was too urgent to worry about trivialities now.   
No time to do it the fancy way, he had to do it the way hardcore junkies did it. Sherlock Holmes was now a junkie anyway.

His nose started burning for a few seconds; he wasn't used to taking it like this but this was quick, more efficient. It was incredible. 

And it was working. 

Sherlock returned to the bedroom calmly, his nerves were already dancing with newfound sensations. Stunning sensations. Colourful sensations. Flooding his mind with ambience that dissociated him from his current emotions. 

  


Sherlock Holmes in his sane mind would never get high in the presence of a dangerous man with anger issues but he wasn't sane. 

Phil was standing by the bed, his hands behind him, a smug grin plastered on his face. 

"What is it?" Sherlock stopped, his voice strained with impatience.

"Nothing, just get on the bed." Phil gestured with his head.

Sherlock started to lie on his stomach, the usual position.

"On your back," Phil said.

Sherlock did just that and then Phil brought his hands out from behind his back. He was holding something in his hands; the usual darkened state of the bedroom did nothing to help aid his sight, but the little amount of light was enough for Sherlock to deduce what it was, the clinking sound it made from swinging, confirming just that. 

"Those are police handcuffs."

"Yes, they are." Phil replied, grinning more widely.

"People use the fancy kinds usually." Sherlock suppressed a small laugh. He was feeling so relaxed, the drugs were already ravaging him, everything felt euphoric. 

"Do I come off as one of the 'fancy ones' Sherlock?" Phil cocked his eyebrows in challenge.

"No, you don't."

"Neither do you."

Yes of course. I hate fancy.   
Give me filthy. Give me pain. Give me more pain to suppress the ache I already have. Let it consume me.

Phil climbed onto the bed, hovering over Sherlock, his stiff and leaking erection brushing over Sherlock's stomach, leaving a wet trail behind.  
Sherlock noticed nothing.

His eyes were fixated on Phil's. The hard blue gaze reminding him of a chapter from an old marine biology book he read as a child. The deeper oceans, unexplored; where everything is colourless, the fish there are predators, violent and threatening. Even blood looks green that far down. Nobody knew what exactly lay under the dark and deep fathoms.

Sherlock realized he didn't know what kind of man Phil exactly was.   
Phil stopped mere inches away from Sherlock's face, eyes sparkling with lust and murky with danger.

"Do you trust me?" Phil asked; the handcuffs clinking in his hand reminding Sherlock of an evening being handcuffed with another person. 

A sentimental memory, running, hands held together, the blood pumping through their veins, just the two of them against the world.   
He trusted that person.

Not the replacement in front of him.

"No." he whispered the truth.

"I can work with that."

Phil took Sherlock's hands with his own and guided them to the headboard. A clanking of metal, a small click later, and Sherlock was cuffed, laying vulnerable underneath a dangerous man.

And he was aroused beyond his imagination; the uncontrollable numbness from the drug was crawling all over him, igniting the nerves in his body, pushing him towards oblivion. He was so lost and turned on.  He didn't care that if he was assaulted in his position, he wouldn't even have the power to counterattack. His hands were bound. And it felt heavenly.

  


Pulled from his daze, Sherlock looked in front of him. Things were so clear now.  
John was smiling. John lifted his two legs and gently placed them on his own shoulders. Then John wiped the sweat of his brow, caressing his skin, looked at him lovingly with radiant blue eyes. Sherlock heard the pop of a bottle cap and some seconds later John's fingers were inside him, filling him. 

It was the most beautiful sensation. 

John's fingers brushed over his prostrate, sending waves of pleasure through his entire body, wringing wanton moans from Sherlock's throat.

"Are you okay Sherlock?" John was asking. The soft voice felt like it came from lightyears away.

John was just over him, why did he sound so far? He wanted to ask John, but no sound came out.

Then he felt John's fingers slide out from him. When did John put three fingers in? Sherlock didn't notice, he was so lost and happy. John wrapped over him, spread over his existence, surrounding him with warmth and affection. This is all that mattered.

Sherlock felt John push himself into him, gliding his cock into Sherlock, filling him completely. It felt so good, so familiar. How long have they been making love for? How many years? Sherlock couldn't remember. He didn't have to.

All at once, John was inside him and moving, the onslaught of movement making him whine in pleasure, the handcuffs clinking with each thrust, bringing him closer and closer to the edge. John was smiling at him. His smile was brightening the whole room. He wanted to say 'I love you' to John. But no words came out this time either. 

John's hand was wrapped around his cock, Sherlock moaned at the pleasuring touch as John's hand started to move along his length, giving a small squeeze at the hilt, stroking the tip with his thumb. Sherlock was dying from the touch, his balls started to tighten.  
And John was moving, giving low and deep thrusts that reached so deep inside of Sherlock. Sherlock saw stars dancing in his vision, the world around him expanding. John was making love to him under the stars.  
"Oh John, yes. Yes!"

  


  
Suddenly, Sherlock felt in his gut that something was wrong, very wrong with the scenario. He opened his eyes.  
John's head was cradled on Sherlock's shoulder blade; the head snapped up and stared at Sherlock. 

"What did you say?" _John_ asked from under heavy eyes. He was sweaty, his blond hair sticking up from his forehead, eyes cold and coloured in dark hues, like drowning underwater.

Not John.

Phil.

And Sherlock came, an unsatisfactory orgasm, his semen spurting between them. Sherlock was stiff. No post orgasm relaxation. Nothing. He became tense like never before. He just hallucinated having sex with John, and said his name. Phil must have heard, but he was gonna take his chances.

"Nothing, I said 'yes, go on', don't stop." Sherlock managed to answer between breaths.  
And Phil didn't. His thrusts became deeper and more ruthless. Sherlock just took everything, freezing in his position, trying to numb his racing thoughts, ignoring the bleeding bite that Phil gave him just as he spilled himself in Sherlock, while uttering every name of God in existence.

And when Phil unlocked the handcuffs and rolled over to the other side of the bed, neglecting to ask about his slightly bruised wrist or about his state, Sherlock kept staring at the ceiling.  
He rolled onto his side after some minutes and made up his mind. He was going to get rid of Phil.

  


  


After exactly four days, Sherlock was sprawled again on his bed; not cuffed this time, and Phil was panting heavily beside him.   
"That was fucking good or good fucking! Whatever." Phil laughed.

_Tell him now._

  
"Phil, I think we should stop seeing each other." Sherlock announced quite hurriedly. He felt a droplet of sweat roll down his eyebrows, when had he started sweating? Must be the withdrawal. He has to get this over with as soon as possible, has to stop the withdrawal with  consumption before it got worse.

Phil turned towards him and slowly sat up. 

"Say that again." His voice was calm and his eyes glinted with steel.

Sherlock rested his gaze on Phil and cautiously moved into a sitting position.

"I don't want to continue this arrangement of ours Phil." Sherlock delivered his practiced statement in a similarly calm tone.

"And I refuse," Phil smiled crookedly.

"You have to accept Phil. This is not working for me." Sherlock had negotiated with lots of dangerous men in his lifetime but took none of them in his bed. This was new territory and although he couldn't convince himself, Sherlock was slightly afraid.

"So I suppose John Watson is back is your life?" Phil's grin expanded, his white teeth glistening.

"No, what? What does that even mean? What are you implying?" Sherlock's heart started beating frantically.

"Sherlock...tsk tsk. Do you think I am that stupid to miss you moaning John Watson's name while I was fucking your brains out?"

Sherlock's feet started to get cold, the pain had started to return, dragging him back to reality.

"I fucking own you Sherlock Holmes. If I want, I could put you on a leash like the bitch you are. I don't care about any John Watson. I will kill him with my bare hands if I get the chance."

And Sherlock saw Phil; reading him for the first time, realizing the blunder he had done by taking a reptile to his bed.  
His hands started shaking and without a second word he stood up and paced towards the bathroom. 

He didn't bother closing the door and put his hand under the cupboard for the hidden box. 

_Nothing there._

Sherlock's heart almost leapt through his throat.  
His heart was beating so hard it felt like it would come out of his chest. Withdrawal and fear.  
Where is it? It was here in the afternoon. Where can it have gone...?

The moment he realised the possibility of what could have happened, Phil walked through the bathroom door, his flaccid cock hanging from between his legs, and in his hand, a little wooden box which contained a syringe and the drugs he hid together, with the initials S.H carved on the lid of it.

"You must be looking for this, Mr. Holmes." He lifted his hand. 

"Or maybe this?" Phil asked as he moved his other hand from behind his back to reveal the second box, which he had hidden under the bison head earlier. 

Sherlock forgot to breathe.

Phil was just standing in the doorway, an unexplainable grin painted on his face.

"You know those are not the only supplies I have got." Sherlock proceeded to say as nonchalantly as possible, but his voice was shaken. 

"Oh, you mean the one in your violin box and the other one under the wood boards? I took care of those." 

"I could always get them outside, this is a ridiculous blackmailing technique Phil. I expected more from you." Sherlock gave a tight lipped smile, attempting to display confidence. 

"Believe me, I am more than that. I know your usual drug dealers, I know your routine; how you don't buy from one dealer two consecutive times and I also made sure that no one is gonna sell you drugs until I say so." Phil chuckled. "I am not some amateur Sherlock. You should have figured that out long ago. I check background data before investing in anything. I get whatever I want, when I want. Not even God can stop me from that."

Sherlock stood like a stone statue. 

  
_I should have come out while I could._  
Should have listened to Mycroft.  
Should never have left John.

 

And then Phil came closer.   
He stood in front of Sherlock and stopped his mouth just beside Sherlock's ear.  
A damp, hot breath and then a whisper. Sherlock had goose bumps.  
"Consulting Detective Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I guess I own you now."

Sherlock closed his eyes.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I will be back with John's POV for the next chapter.


End file.
